


Reform

by Android_And_Ale



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: 4x16 ish AU, Boldly unbuttoned waistcoats, But not the kind Harry or Cisco want, Chicken Dr. Light, Chicken Girder, Chicken Hazard, Chicken Tar Pit, Chicken Weather Wizard, Edison is a dick, Hair Washing, Historically Accurate Undergarments, Hurt/Comfort, Just so many meta chickens, Late Victorian AU, M/M, Mad Science, Mayor Snart, Not so secret notes, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Soft nerdy scientists, Transmogrification, harrisco, harriscofest 2018, historically inaccurate yet show level science, manly shaving, slow Victorian boning, what can't you do with this marvelous new electricity?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-20
Updated: 2018-08-06
Packaged: 2019-04-25 09:01:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14375460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Android_And_Ale/pseuds/Android_And_Ale
Summary: Mr. Ramon straightened his leather apron and strode to the opposite side of the table. “At least Edison had the grace to merely electrocute his victims.” He plucked a chunk of flesh out of his long black hair and tossed it onto the operating table.“Perhaps you and Papa should discuss the precise composition of the elixir in proportion to the maximum amount of electricity surging through Edison’s wires?” said Miss Jessica.Mr. Ramon snorted. “Perhaps we should tell Mayor Snart we can’t transform Central City’s criminals into chickens.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This Victorian AU was inspired by Harry's suggestion that they perform inter-cellular surgery to transform the remaining bus metas into chickens before defensively informing Cisco that Mad Science isn't a degree, it's an area of study.

The gas lamps flickered once, twice, then finally flared back to life as the creature on the table exhaled its final breath.

“That,” Mr. Ramon pointed an accusing finger at the twisted mass of flesh, “Is *not* a chicken!”

Dr. Harrison Wells still tightly gripped his lab assistant’s shoulders. They’d been blown back against the wall as the electricity’s transformative power flowed through their crowning achievement. Their welder’s masks and leather aprons felt impossibly heavy under the weight of flying chunks of flesh as they vainly watched yet another failure writhe, transform, and explode on the table.

As Edison’s unreliable electrical power surged, Harrison curled around Mr. Ramon, dragging them both behind the relative safety of the steel plate he’d installed opposite the operating theater. They crouched there still, Harrison’s tall, lanky body wrapped protectively around his assistant, hands tightly gripping his shoulders lest he dash out in a futile attempt to save the wretched criminal strapped to their laboratory’s operating table.

Mr. Ramon shakily pushed himself upright. The doctor’s hands loosened, fingers accidentally tracing a firm line down his back until his hands rested on Mr. Ramon’s hips. He leaned sideways, looking past Mr. Ramon’s body to gauge the remains splattering their operating theater. Mr. Ramon sighed, then flipped up his welder’s mask and squinted at the table in frustration.

A strong hand rapped on the outer door twice. Harrison’s hands dropped of their own accord. Mr. Ramon did not appear to notice. Miss Jessica stuck her head in, rolled her eyes, and pulled a sturdy leather apron off the hook behind the door. She strode to the table, frowning at the twisted creature in disgust. “This is worse than watching Edison and his elephants.”

Mr. Ramon straightened his leather apron and strode to the opposite side of the table. “At least Edison had the grace to merely electrocute his victims.” He plucked a chunk of flesh out of his long black hair and tossed it onto the operating table.

“Perhaps you and Papa should discuss the precise composition of the elixir in proportion to the maximum amount of electricity surging through Edison’s wires?” said Miss Jessica.

Mr. Ramon snorted. “Perhaps we should tell Mayor Snart we can’t transform Central City’s criminals into chickens.”

“You’ll never achieve greatness if you dwell on your failures," she said.  “Join us for supper this evening. Papa and I have some new innovations we want to discuss with you. I promise a most arousing evening of discourse.”

Behind them, Dr. Wells glared at his daughter, angrily shaking his head in a firm no.

Mr. Ramon smiled at his employer’s daughter. “What are you having?”

She broke off a twisted, feathered elbow and held it out to him with a grin. “Anything but chicken.”

 

* * *

  
Dr. Wells stared at the flies collecting around the latest prisoner. He was accustomed to flies collecting around the corpses, but this was an unpleasant new development. Something was unusually off about his body chemistry.

“What are they feeding you at Iron Heights?” Mr. Ramon tied his cravat around his mouth and nose to block out the stench.

“Dunno,” Mr. Woodward shrugged. “It comes inna bucket.”

This was a miserable day for an experiment, but they were bound by an unholy alliance of Edison’s temperamental electrical schedule and Mayor Snart’s sentencing.

Dr. Wells had hung his jacket behind a chair well before morning tea. Shortly after he’d rolled his shirtsleeves up to his elbows. He glanced nervously over at Mr. Ramon, whose only concession to the heat was to loop his long black hair into a low bun. He sweat so much his impromptu cravat mask stuck to his stubble.

“Mr. Ramon,” Dr. Wells snapped at the engineer. “We’ve worked together for over a year. I’ve seen you covered in the viscera of at least seven different creatures. You need not accede to formality in such stifling heat. Do feel free to remove your jacket.”

The prisoner on the table raised an eyebrow at Mr. Ramon.

Dr. Wells sighed. “Propriety be damned. I’m removing my waistcoat. I might even unfasten a few shirt buttons.”

“Cover your eyes, Mr. Ramon,” said Mr. Woodward. “Things are about to get depraved.”

Mr. Ramon tightened the leather straps holding Mr. Woodward to the operating table. Mr. Woodward’s grin widened.

Dr. Wells hesitated for a moment, then turned around before hastily unbuttoning his waistcoat. He wanted to strip the damn thing off along with his shirt. Perhaps pour a bit of water over his bare skin and stand next to the window until a cool breeze persuaded him he was almost human again. He glanced over his shoulder to find Mr. Ramon watching him intently. Dr. Wells swallowed hard and turned back around, struck by an unexpected bout of shyness. He left the unbuttoned waistcoat hanging from his shoulders and unfastened the top three buttons of his collar.

When he turned around Mr. Ramon was still sweating through three layers of clothing. Dr. Wells sighed. He leaned over the table and tugged at the top button of Mr. Ramon’s purple and blue waistcoat. “I will not suffer through watching you pretend you are not miserable in order to impress me.” Mr. Ramon’s hand closed over Dr. Wells awkward fingers. “You would be just as impressive an engineer if you paraded around the laboratory in naught but the loincloth and body paint of a savage.”

“They actually have some shockingly progressive views…” Mr. Ramon mumbled.

Tony Woodward let his head loll sideways so he could wink up at Mr. Ramon. “Betcha the old man would like that.”

“I’m fine.” Mr. Ramon’s cheeks flushed as he stepped away.

Dr. Wells didn’t know what to do with his hands. He ran his sweaty palms over the thighs of his wool trousers then plucked absently at Mr. Woodward’s stained garments. “I can smell you from here.” 

“So can I.” Mr. Woodward shot him a cheeky grin.

Mr. Ramon crossed his arms. “How much of that stench is his clothing?”

Mr. Woodward shrugged. “Nah. It’s all me. I’m practically naked.” Central City’s prison delivered him to them in naught but a filthy shirt and ripped trousers - no waistcoat, jacket, or even shoes to his credit.

“We’ll have to cut it all off him before we apply the electricity,” said Dr. Wells. He strode around the table to stand behind Mr. Ramon. Before the engineer could protest, he stiffly tucked fingers into Mr. Ramon’s jacket and tugged it off his shoulders. He folded it neatly over the back of Mr. Ramon’s favorite chair. “Do feel free to roll up your shirt sleeves.”

“Ooh. Are things about to get dirty, Dr. Wells?” Mr. Woodward smirked up at him.

A firm hand rapped twice at the door. Mr. Ramon hastily elbowed past Dr. Wells to fetch his jacket. Before he could put it on, Miss Jesse was inside, nose wrinkling at the smell. She took the jacket from Mr. Ramon’s hands and tossed it onto her father’s desk. He could see the white edges of a new folded note sticking out of the jacket’s pocket.

“Why are you still wearing your waistcoat? This time of year Papa is usually stripped down to his trousers by lunch.” She deftly unbuttoned Mr. Ramon’s waistcoat and gave his shoulder a sisterly pat. “Now tell me. Exactly how is this poor soul going to die?”

Mr. Woodward grinned up at her. “A last kiss before I meet my maker?”

“You’re not going to die, Mr. Woodward.” Mr. Ramon and Jesse looked dubious as Dr. Wells pushed up his shirt sleeves. “Although today you will be remade.”

Miss Jessica leaned back against the steel security shield while her father and Mr. Ramon carefully cut away the last of Mr. Woodward’s clothing. “Get a good look, lass!”

Miss Jessica rolled her eyes. “I’ve seen better.” Her father slowly turned his head to her, raising one eyebrow. From the table, Mr. Woodward laughed.

When the tattered scraps were gone and the last of the wires and suction cups attached they carefully fed Mr. Woodward his final dose of elixir. Miss Jessica pulled on a welding mask and took her place behind the steel door. Despite all his failures, her father always radiated excitement as he put one anchoring hand on Mr. Ramon’s shoulder and used the other to flip the switch.

 

* * *

 

To the surprise of everyone, Mr. Woodward was still alive.

Mr. Ramon sat on the floor, jacket off, waistcoat unbuttoned, trousers utterly covered in chicken guano. The solid steel chicken snuggled into his lap, calmly pecking bites of lunch off Mr. Ramon’s plate.

A few paces away, Dr. Wells held a steel shelled egg up in front of a bunsen burner, squinting at the surface in hopes of the flame illuminating whatever lay within.

Mr. Ramon frowned at the note he found under his sandwich. Tony the Chicken pecked at his hand, encouraging Mr. Ramon to flip it over so the chicken could continue reading. It squaked twice and shook its head.

“What have you now?” Dr. Wells rested a hand on Mr. Ramon’s shoulder and pulled on his glasses. Mr. Ramon sighed and handed over the note.

Dr. Wells snorted. He dug a similarly folded piece of paper out of his pocket and tossed it on Mr. Ramon’s plate. “I have clearly failed my only child. This purple prose is an embarrassment.”

Mr. Ramon looked up in disgust. “Does she really think this resembles my handwriting?” He unfolded the note and spread it flat so Tony the Chicken could walk slowly across it, squaking quietly to himself as he sounded out the words.

“Her lazy literary devices break my heart. One would think my own daughter would at least make analogies comparing you to an electrical generator of joy.”

Mr. Ramon shook his head, equally vexed. "Does she really think you would resort to base alchemy? Even in a letter? You're a scientist!"

As if summoned by their words, Miss Jessica gave the door a perfunctory knock before walking in, trailing a long string of telegraph tape. As she brushed past Mr. Ramon a small folded note fell out of her palm and into his lap. He rolled his eyes.

“Remind the warden we have an immediate need to know what is different about Iron Heights prison conditions,” said Dr. Wells. Miss Jessica rolled her eyes at her father’s greeting.

The chicken stared up at Mr. Ramon with frighteningly intelligent eyes. It nudged the new note towards Mr. Ramon’s hand. Mr. Ramon put a finger to his lips, making hard eye contact with the steel chicken as he slid the note into his breast pocket. He covered the motion by petting the chicken’s neck. It squacked happily and leaned into his hand.

“I’m can’t call a chicken Mr. Woodward. From now on he’s Tony.” Tony the Chicken’s head bobbed in what Mr. Ramon chose to interpret as approval.

“If we put him in our rooftop cage with access to roosters what kind of creature do you think would result from the fertilized eggs?” asked Dr. Wells.

Tony the Chicken fluffed his feathers in what Cisco chose to interpret as a shrug. “If he lays a fertilized egg we’ll have to start calling him Mrs. Woodward.”

“Papa!” Miss Jessica snapped. She held up the telegraph tape to get his attention. “I have word from the mayor!”

Mr. Ramon, Dr. Wells, and Tony the Chicken simultaneously turned to her. She cleared her throat and dragged the telegraph tape back to the message’s start.

“He says, ‘Next time make me a goose that lays golden eggs. Or Silver. I’m not greedy.’”

Mr. Ramon lightly stroked the top of Tony the Chicken’s head. “No one appreciates you.”

“Does he know our last dozen subjects exploded?” asked Dr. Wells.

“Yes, Papa.” Miss Jessica tossed the telegraph tape in Mr. Ramon’s lap. “Which is why we can expect thirteen more in as many days.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mr. Ramon slid a hand across the smooth wood surface until his pinky finger brushed against Dr. Wells own. He swallowed hard and left it there. 
> 
> A long moment passed wherein neither moved, though they could hear one another breathe. Dr. Wells pinky stretched towards Mr. Ramon’s hand, gently draping over his nearest finger. Mr. Ramon’s heart beat viciously against his ribcage. Eyes still steadfastly focused on their lunch, he slid his hand closer, so two fingers were beneath the one Dr. Wells extended. After a breathless pause, he slid his ring finger up to loop around Dr. Wells own. 
> 
> Mr. Ramon dared a glance at Dr. Wells. The esteemed scientist’s eyes were closed, breathing slow and deep, forehead wrinkled in concentration. Mr. Ramon chewed his bottom lip, waiting for some more definitive response. When none came, he slowly slid his hand away.

Mr. Ramon stared at the stained operating table. Over the last two weeks they’d had four successes and nine failures. The only common factor between the successes was a month or more in Iron Heights Prison.

Max the Chicken blasted tiny flames like a miniature dragon. He mostly lived in their rooftop henhouse where there was no danger of him setting any of their papers on fire.

Linda the Chicken could illuminate a room better than any gas lamp, electrical bulb, or old fashioned torch. She’d allowed them to continue their work late into the night. As a consequence, every morning Mr. Ramon had to take Tony the Chicken on a Special Walk and reassuringly whisper that he would never play favorites.

The chickens all knew that was a blatant lie because every day Dr. Wells proclaimed Mark the Chicken was by far his favorite, the shining success of the program, the reason he soldiered on.

Mark was almost destined for a solitary life in a tiny rooftop cage for stirring up a tiny tornado that whisked Miss Jessica’s skirts up around her waist. However, as soon as Dr. Wells stuffed him into an 18 inch wire transport cube, the temperature in the room dropped from scorching summer to balmy autumn.

They quickly reached a detente. As long as he was exclusively fed roast beef sandwiches and beer, Mark the Chicken kept the room so pleasant you’d think leaf peeping season was around the corner, although Dr. Wells continued to leave his jacket folded over his chair and both his waistcoat and shirt unbuttoned.

Dr. Wells, Mr. Ramon, and Miss Jessica all set up sleeping cots in the laboratory so they could enjoy a respite from the unusually brutal July.

Joey the Chicken was their lone disappointment. In an attempt to recreate Tony’s success with a few modifications aimed more at silver than steel they inadvertently turned him into a creature of living tar that secreted frightening eggs. He’d gone broody over his nest, and no one was willing to risk a hand for the sake of scientific investigation.

Miss Jessica rapped the door twice. “You two look altogether too comfortable. If you want another hot meal before September I decree Mark the Chicken is joining me down in the kitchen.” She sat down a tray with two lukewarm sandwiches and a fresh pot of tea.

“Any news from the mayor?” asked Mr. Ramon.

Miss Jessica brightened. “He’s sending a new Iron Heights prisoner around tomorrow. That should make your sixth success.”

Dr. Wells poured tea for himself and Mr. Ramon. He put three sugars and a generous splash of milk in Mr. Ramon’s cup while Mr. Ramon squeezed a wedge of lemon into Dr. Wells unsweetened tea. “Excellent news, Jesse. Feel free to close the window and take Mr. Mardon downstairs with you. Tell the cook to make lamb for three tonight.”

Poultry had been off the menu for months.

Mark the Chicken cheerfully nestled into Miss Jessica’s arms. She giggled as a whoosh of wind swept her skirts high enough to reveal both ankles. “Try not to blow up the building before supper.” She winked at her father as she closed the door.

Mr. Ramon lifted the top of his sandwich and frowned. Nestled in the sad pile of weather warmed roast beef was a small note wrapped in waxed paper. Dr. Wells hid a smile behind his teacup as Mr. Ramon unfolded it. Mr. Ramon rolled his eyes. “I believe this one is yours.”

Dr. Wells lifted the edge of his bread. “Of course. This sandwich is covered in your accursed chili pepper concoction rather than proper mustard.” He removed the note and traded sandwiches.

They spread Jesse’s anything-but-secret notes flat on the table. “I think her attempts at copying our handwriting are actually growing worse,” said Mr. Ramon. He stole a jam filled tea biscuit off Dr. Wells plate.

“This is ridiculous.” Dr. Wells washed an unsatisfying bite of sandwich down with another gulp of tea. “I’d never compare your hair to silk.”

Mr. Ramon awkwardly put down the biscuit and tucked a stray lock behind his ear.

“It’s obviously like Egyptian cotton, as strong as it is soft.” Dr. Wells fingers stretched to Mr. Ramon’s shoulder. The engineer shyly glanced at his employer, the edge of his mouth curled in something almost resembling a smile. Dr. Wells stared at his own had as though in confusion. He suddenly jerked away, all attention on awkwardly rearranging the tea service.

“I’d never call your voice musical.” Mr. Ramon took the sugar and milk dishes away from Dr. Wells before he broke them. “It’s more like gravel.”

Dr. Wells snorted in agreement. Mr. Ramon rested a hand on the edge of the table nearest his employer. “Or sandpaper. Listening to your excited monologues grinds all the rough edges off my day.”

His hand slid across the smooth wood surface until his pinky finger brushed against Dr. Wells own. He swallowed hard and left it there.

A long moment passed wherein neither moved, though they could hear one another breathe. Dr. Wells pinky stretched towards Mr. Ramon’s hand, gently draping over his nearest finger. Mr. Ramon’s heart beat viciously against his ribcage. Eyes still steadfastly focused on their lunch, he slid his hand closer, so two fingers were beneath the one Dr. Wells extended. After a breathless pause, he slid his ring finger up to loop around Dr. Wells own.

Mr. Ramon dared a glance at Dr. Wells. The esteemed scientist’s eyes were closed, breathing slow and deep, forehead wrinkled in concentration. Mr. Ramon chewed his bottom lip, waiting for some more definitive response. When none came, he slowly slid his hand away.

Before Mr. Ramon could withdraw all contact, Dr. Wells turned to him, eyes now open, alight with a consuming fire. Mr. Ramon staggered back a step, unsure whether the passion he’d aroused was rage or desire. Dr. Wells instantly closed the distance between them. Mr. Ramon closed his eyes, wincing as he saw Dr. Wells lift a hand.

Instead of an angry slap, gentle fingers tucked a stray lock of hair behind Mr. Ramon’s ear.

Mr. Ramon dared open his eyes. They had stood this close before while companionably immersed in the art of creation. Closer still if one counted all the times they’d been knocked to the floor during an explosion, tumbling over one another as they rolled to some semblance of safety. He’d felt Dr. Wells breath in his ear, chest pressed close against his back as hot viscera rained down on their experimental operating theater. But only in the theater of his mind had Dr. Wells ever looked upon Mr. Ramon as though he wanted to consume him.

Mr. Ramon lay a hand on the center of Dr. Wells chest, warm fingers hesitantly settling on the flesh exposed by his unbuttoned shirt. Dr. Wells hand cupped Mr. Ramon’s jaw, thumb sliding over the dimple in the middle of his chin. Mr. Ramon’s breath caught, and he let his fingers drift slowly down the unbuttoned expanse of Dr. Wells chest until they came to rest on his belt. Dr. Wells eyes closed for a moment. He breathed harder, still holding Mr. Ramon’s chin in his hand, and leaned in until their lips brushed.

Something more powerful than Edison’s electricity passed between them. The pining, the wondering, the worry over consequences was swept away as soft lips brushed against three day’s growth of stubble.

Mr. Ramon let his hands slide under the stiff white fabric, palms flat against surprisingly hard muscle as he let himself indulgently explore the warm, sinuey flesh he’d heretofore only admired from across the laboratory. The more his hands moved, the more insistent Dr. Wells mouth became, soft kisses giving way to gently sucking Mr. Ramon’s plush lower lip.

Dr. Wells staggered back against the table as Mr. Ramon’s tongue breached his lips, gently exploring his mouth with the same honeyed pace and patience as fingers gently exploring Wells lean, muscled chest.

Mr. Ramon’s own waistcoat was unbuttoned, cravat neatly folded and stuffed in a pocket. Dr. Wells fingers stuttered over his shirt buttons. He wanted to rip the white cotton open, send the buttons pinging across the laboratory, propriety be damned. Instead he pushed Mr. Ramon’s suspenders off his shoulders and dragged a line of kisses down his neck to his collarbone, wrestling the cloth aside with his own cheek until Mr. Ramon laughed. “You’re choking me on my own clothes.”

Wells hungrily watched as Mr. Ramon hastily unfastened his own buttons. He glanced up through his lashes, plush mouth widening into a sunshine grin that threatened to incinerate Wells in its incandescent brightness.

Dr. Wells swept a long arm across their shared work table, knocking their lunches and china tea service to the ground. Mr. Ramon gaped in shock. Before his assistant could recover, Dr. Wells wrapped strong hands around his waist and lifted until he was perched on the edge of the table. One hand slid under Mr. Ramon’s freshly unbuttoned shirt, the other boldly along his thigh. His forehead rested against Mr. Ramon’s as he was momentarily overwhelmed by the smooth, honey warmth of soft skin beneath his hand, open and inviting and there to be touched, stroked, licked. His for the taking, more impossibly willing and eager than in his most guilt inducing dreams.

The door crashed open without a knock. A breathless Miss Jessica appeared, water bucket in hand. She stared wildly at the table, about to douse whatever they’d set fire to now. Her eyes widened for a moment. She swallowed hard, then quietly set the bucket by the door. “Forgive my misunderstanding. Don’t let me interrupt.” She hid her bright smile behind a quick curtsey and ducked out the door again.

“Should we?” Mr. Ramon looked ready to chase her down while conjuring an innocent explanation.

Dr. Wells firm hand on his thigh held him on the table. “After all her love notes? She’ll be insufferably pleased with herself at dinner.” He leaned in for another kiss, bolder this time, hungrily licking into Mr. Ramon’s sweet mouth, relishing the soft confidence as Mr. Ramon kissed him back. “You must promise to join us. I can’t be held responsible for my own actions if left alone with her smugness.”

Mr. Ramon wrapped his fists in the sides of Dr. Wells open shirt, half pulling the taller man onto him as he leaned back onto the table. “You want me at your table? Or on it?”

Dr. Wells hands slid down Mr. Ramon’s chest, over his trousers. A hungry sigh escaped his lips as he palmed Mr. Ramon’s hardness. He leaned in, kissing a line down his sternum, over his belly, until he ran his teeth over the tented fabric.

His hands rested on Mr. Ramon’s knees, pushing them apart as he slotted between them. His fingers danced over the twin line of buttons holding Mr. Ramon’s grey trousers closed. His eyes darted towards a scalpel.

“No.” Mr. Ramon wrapped both hands around Dr. Wells wrists, sunshine smile softening the harsh command. He tugged Dr. Wells hands over to the row of buttons on the left while deftly unfastening the row on the right. Trousers open, Dr. Wells set to to the ties holding Mr. Ramon’s linen drawers closed. Mr. Ramon tangled his hands in Dr. Wells mess of brown curls, grinning at the other man’s look of frustrated concentration.

He pulled the last of the fabric aside and stared down at his prize in wonder. Long fingers gently stroked the soft skin of exposed thigh, twirled in the dark curls, teasingly moving over every inch of uncovered flesh other than Mr. Ramon’s throbbing cock.

Mr. Ramon’s hips rose. He dragged one of Dr. Wells hands to the open flaps of his trousers and drawers, urging him to help tug them free. A slow, predatory smile spread across Dr. Wells face. He tugged the garments down to Mr. Ramon’s knees and pressed one firm hand to his chest, pinning him to the work table. “Stay.”

Mr. Ramon propped himself on one elbow, waistcoat gone, open shirt half falling off one shoulder, drawers and trousers pulled down to his knees, and watched as Dr. Wells rummaged in the supplies cabinet. A few moments later he returned with a small bottle of olive oil.

“I said stay.” Dr. Wells grin widened again as he pushed Mr. Ramon’s knees as wide apart as the fabric allowed and slotted himself between them. He leaned in for another kiss, relishing Mr. Ramon’s soft moan as he indulgently ground against his exposed flesh. Dr. Wells poured a generous draught of olive oil over his fingers and slid his hand between Mr. Ramon’s thighs.

Mr. Ramon’s mouth gaped into a silent O as Dr. Wells finger slid around his entrance. He gripped Dr. Wells shoulders, hands digging tight as a slick finger slid in. Dr. Wells trailed a line of kisses up his chin, over his nose, until his lips rested on his forehead as the finger sank all the way to the knuckle.

He propped himself on one elbow so he could look into Mr. Ramon’s eyes as he eased a second finger into that impossibly enticing warmth. Mr. Ramon silently chewed his bottom lip, wide eyes both innocent and eager as his hips rose, giving Dr. Wells deeper access.

“You’ve done this before,” Dr. Wells whispered.

Mr. Ramon lay a hand on Dr. Wells cheek, urging him down into another breathless kiss. He nibbled gently on Dr. Wells ear. “Neither of us are innocents.”

Dr. Wells relished Mr. Ramon’s happy, easy grin as he coaxed him open with slow, honeyed strokes. He paused as Mr. Ramon winced from the stretch as he eased in a third finger.

Mr. Ramon buried a hand in his curls, “Don’t stop.”

If pressed, Dr. Wells honestly wasn’t sure he could. He’d left his own trousers fastened out of fear that if he wasn’t forced to take his time he’d rip his assistant in half in his impatient eagerness. Mr. Ramon stared into his eyes as he reached down and slowly unfastened all six of Dr. Wells trouser buttons. His fingers tugged free the bow holding his linen drawers closed, and suddenly Dr. Wells eyes closed of their own accord. He sucked air through his teeth as Mr. Ramon’s strong hand wrapped around his cock, stroking the length, pulling him closer.

Dr. Wells bent in for one more fevered kiss, gently twisting all three fingers in a final stretch. He drizzled more olive oil directly on his cock, rubbing it in, then poured a bit more over Mr. Ramon’s balls, watching it drip down over his wet hole. He lined himself up, swallowed hard, then paused. “Are you certain?”

Mr. Ramon’s hands slid over Dr. Wells hips, pulling him closer, urging him in. Dr. Wells own hands trembled on Mr. Ramon’s thighs as he pushed the head of his cock into his impossibly warm, soft body.

“Dr. Wells,” Mr. Ramon gasped.

“Harrison.” He slid an inch deeper, staring into Mr. Ramon’s eyes. One hand tightened on his thigh while the other cupped his cheek. “Though you can call me Harry.”

The irresistible sunshine grin returned. “So uncommon,” he panted, “Everyone at the gentlemen’s clubs is named John.” He held onto Harry’s open trousers like reigns, pulling him deeper.

“When I was a young man they were all named George.” Harry’s thumb gently moved over a stubbled cheek. Mr. Ramon’s head rolled sideways so he could kiss the palm of Harry’s hand.

“Cisco,” he said softly. He kissed each of Harry’s fingers in turn before once more staring up into Dr. Wells eyes. “And I’ll tell you what I told your daughter. If you ever call me Frank I’ll pack my bags and be gone before morning.”

Joy bubbled up inside him until it spilled out in a hearty laugh, triggering equal chuckles from Cisco. They held one another’s cheeks, staring into one another’s eyes as they laughed together, each thrust punctuated by a gasp.

The chuckles slowly died down as their gasps gave way to soft, discrete moans. Harry still held Cisco’s face between his hands, marveling at his open mouthed look of pleasure. His thumb gently stroked Cisco’s stubbled cheek in time with each gentle thrust.

“Touch me,” Cisco whispered.

Harry slid in to the hilt, breathing hard, and dragged a rough hand down Cisco’s chest until it wrapped around his cock. For a moment he was paralyzed. Part of his brain simply could not believe he was buried inside this brilliant man he’d coveted for a year. So often he’d dreamed of standing behind Mr. Ramon, unfastening his trouser buttons, pressing his chest hard against the engineer’s back as he reached into his drawers and discovered him to be just as hard, throbbing, eager.

“Harry,” Cisco whispered.

Dr. Wells opened his eyes. This was real. Here. Now. He smothered Cisco’s bitten lip in a crushing kiss. Cisco buried a hand in his soft brown curls, holding their foreheads together as his hips rolled up to meet Harry’s thrusts.

“You’re perfect,” Harry whispered in his ear. “Brilliant.” He thrust deeper. “Handsome.” Every word punctuated with his hips. “Clever.” His lips brushed softly over Cisco’s again and his gravel voice lowered. “Mine.”

“Yes.” Cisco swallowed hard, eyes wide, hands tight on Harry’s hip and hair. Harry kept the slow roll of his hips steady but the hand stroking Cisco’s cock moved faster, dragging quiet whimpers of pleasure from Cisco’s throat.

Each catch of his breath, each quiet moan slid down Harry’s spine and nestled in his cock, coiling, swelling, driving him deeper into the sweet, soft warmth of Cisco’s so good so tight so perfect body until his hips stuttered, rhythm lost as his mind and body both exploded. His world narrowed to a singular all consuming thought as he hissed Cisco’s name in his release.

Cisco stared hard into his eyes, one hand holding tight to Harry’s trousers lest the satiated man slip away while the other urged Harry’s hand to stroke. Harry shuddered. He had no idea how much he wanted, no, needed someone to look at him with the lusty intensity burning behind his assistant’s eyes.

Cisco’s hips gently rocked against Harry’s still hard cock as Harry poured more oil onto his hand. Harry smiled in satisfaction at Cisco’s hiss as he sloppily gripped Cisco’s cock, pumping now with purpose, dragging him closer to the finish with every stroke until he was rewarded with a groan Cisco couldn’t hide as slick spurts fountained out of Harry’s hand, splattering Cisco’s chest in pale white cords.

He stared in wonder at the sweaty, willing body still wrapped so slick and tight around his own, evidence of their mutual lust unmistakably painted on Cisco’s honey skin. He kissed Cisco’s chest, drowning his lips in salty slick before pressing his forehead to Cisco’s once more.

“Taste yourself.”

Cisco’s mouth opened under his, tongue lapping at his lips, welcoming his kiss. His hands slid over Harry’s back, possessively mapping out every inch as though trying to memorize the curves of his ribs.

Harry straightened, reaching around for Cisco’s hands and holding them firm against his chest. “I can never thank Dante enough for sending you to me.”

Cisco snorted. “We’ll send him a fruit basket.”

Harry couldn’t remember the last time he’d lingered inside another person until he went soft. He wanted to stay exactly where he was, in the safety of his workshop, soft, but still nestled inside the warmth of Cisco’s body, intimately connected by more than their mutual passion for science. Exhaustion rolled over him, and he held onto Cisco’s hips for support, suddenly too shy to meet his gaze.

“Dr. Wells,” Cisco said softly.

“Harrison,” he corrected. He looked down at Cisco’s thighs, at the cool slick lines painted across his belly, at himself still nestled in Cisco’s warm body. Anywhere but his eyes.

“Do you want…”

“Stay.” Harrison didn’t mean to snap. He wanted it to sound gentle, coaxing, not like a desperate and frustrated command. “Don’t tender your resignation.” He let out a long, deep breath, and somewhere in the exhalation Cisco could swear he heard the word, “please.”

“I was going to ask if you’d like to clean up,” Cisco swallowed. “Together?” Now Cisco couldn’t make eye contact. After all the suggestive notes Miss Jessica slipped him, after the months of Dr. Wells staring at him whenever he thought Cisco wouldn’t notice, it honestly hadn’t occurred to him that this could mean the end of his employment at the laboratory. He wondered if Mr. Rathaway’s sudden departure was due to the nature of his employer rather than the nature of their experiments.

“What I want,” Harry said slowly, “Is to send Jessica to stay with her friend Mrs. Allen for a week so I can take you in every room of this house.” His hands slid up Cisco’s waist. “I want to fall asleep inside you.” He palmed Cisco’s cock while twirling long fingers in the black curls surrounding it. “I want to come in your hair. Then draw you a bath and watch you shampoo it clean.”

“What about Mayor Snart’s program?” asked Cisco. They were on a strict deadline.

Harry rolled his eyes. “Fuck the mayor.”

Cisco shrugged, a slow grin spreading over his face. Harry’s eyes widened in shock. Cisco winked, unapologetic.

“No more,” Harry snarled. He wrapped possessive arms around Cisco, pulling him upright and kissing him hard. “You’re mine now.”


	3. Chapter 3

Mayor Snart sprawled bonelessly in his office window seat. His jacket and waistcoat were strewn casually on the floor while his shirt was unbuttoned to the waist, revealing a hint of steel grey chest hair peeking above his undershirt. Sweat plastered his short hair against his skull. 

He held the solid steel egg between his thumb and forefinger, frowning at his own reflection. “Francisco,” he drawled, “I already told you not to come back here.” His gaze slid from the egg to Mr. Ramon’s mouth. “Unless you care to offer something I actually want.” 

Dr. Wells rested a protective hand on the engineer’s shoulder. The mayor’s eyes narrowed, and the room went silent for a beat. Then his face split into the wide, charismatic smile everyone knew from his rallies. He tossed the egg at Dr. Wells, who deftly caught it with his right hand without taking his left off Mr. Ramon’s shoulder. 

Mayor Snart laughed. “Sorry, boys. I can’t approve your request for more electricity. That bastard Edison barely produces enough for my campaign contributors, and you, my doves, are rather the opposite.” 

Mr. Ramon reached into the chicken carrier and pulled out Linda. “Draw the curtains.” 

“Really, Francisco? In this heat?” Mayor Snart leaned back against the wall, his fingertips playing with the curtain ties. “Wouldn’t you rather come back after dark?” 

Mark the Chicken squaked disapproval. He hopped out of his container and nuzzled up against Dr. Wells leg. Wells reached down to absently pet his favorite while setting up the  [ Bessler Stereopticon ](http://www.saratogian.com/article/ST/20110123/NEWS/301239996) .

Mr. Ramon made sure to give Tony the Chicken a few extra pets as he placed the steel egg in his carrier. Once the Stereopticon was set up, he kissed the top of Linda’s head and whispered, “Showtime!” 

The fluffy brown chicken’s eyes lit up. Literally. Within moments, the dim room glowed brighter than the noonday sun. Mr. Ramon grinned proudly as he sat cross legged on the floor, nestling her into his lap directly behind the Stereopticon.

They’d meticulously assembled over 220 slides and precisely timed the speed to ensure the images flashed by so quickly they blurred together into a single moving picture.

“Oh, bravo.” Mayor Snart slowly clapped three times. “Mr. Edison is working on similar technology that doesn’t require a chicken to operate.” 

“You have to admit she can be quite useful after twilight,” Mr. Ramon protested. 

“So can a lantern,” said the mayor, “Which won’t shit on my sleeve.” 

Mr. Ramon leaned in to nuzzle Linda the Chicken’s head. “Don’t take it personally,” he whispered. “He doesn't appreciate anyone.” 

“I heard that,” Snart drawled.

“Good,” muttered Dr. Wells. He picked up Max the Chicken, who obediently snuggled into his arms. The Mayor, Mr. Ramon, and the collection of chickens all watched while Dr. Wells selected a cigar from Mayor Snart’s humidor. He bit off the end, spat it at the Mayor’s feet, and held it out in front of Max. A narrow, six inch long flame erupted from Max’s mouth. Dr. Wells puffed on the cigar before handing it over to the mayor. 

Snart chuckled at the trick. “Congratulations, Dr. Wells. You’ve created the world’s most unimpressive dragon.”  He took a long drag off the cigar before offering it to Mr. Ramon. 

Mr. Ramon silently shook his head and backed up a couple steps, nearly tripping over the travel crates. Mark the Chicken squawked loudly. He stamped his tiny feet in front of another chicken, who shook her head in annoyance. Seconds later, Mark the Chicken floated upwards, drifting across the room without a single flap of his wings until he was positioned next to the Mayor’s elbow. He leaned in, stretched his beak wide around the cigar, and inhaled. Mayor Snart grinned down at him. 

“Congratulations, Doctor Wells. You’ve created a chicken that can fly.” 

“That’s the handiwork of the rather appropriately named Miss Petty,” said Dr. Wells. “Now known as Janet the Chicken. She can levitate any object up to ten times her own weight to a distance up to ten times her height.” 

“Oh, good. The world needed a chicken that can pull objects off tall shelves,” said the mayor. 

“Mayor Snart,” Mr. Ramon’s voice was gentle. 

The mayor’s head snapped to one side. A single eyebrow slid up, questioning and chastising. Mr. Ramon blushed. 

“Leonard,” Mr. Ramon’s voice was softer. “We can’t promise you a golden egg. Yet. But we are making progress. When this began you didn’t ask us for alchemy. You asked us for an inexpensive way to house and feed the city’s prisoners while also ensuring they can do no harm.”

“This one is positively destroying my cigar.” Mayor Snart patted Mark the Chicken’s back as the chicken took another deep puff. 

“We need more time to perfect the process,” said Mr. Ramon. “And even if we progress no further, imagine how much money you’ll save. You can replace constables with farmboys and food with literal chicken feed.” 

“Instead of free public executions we could charge admission for cockfights.” Mayor Snart rubbed his chin. The hovering chicken puffing on his cigar fluttered his wings in a shrug. 

Dr. Wells coughed. “Actually, regardless of their sex before transmogrifycation, after the process is complete they all become hens rather than cocks.” 

“Such a shame,” Mayor Snart’s gaze slid over to Mr. Ramon. “I far prefer cocks.” 

Mark the Chicken blew a tiny smoke ring towards the mayor’s face. Mayor Snart gently pushed Mark the Chicken away. He drifted happily on an invisible breeze, cigar still clutched tightly in his beak. Snart watched him meditatively. 

“Eight more attempts. And Mr. Ramon personally delivers weekly updates.” 

“No,” snapped Dr. Wells.

“What he means,” Mr. Ramon glared at his employer, “Is we need at least twelve more attempts.” 

“Six,” snapped Mayor Snart. “For being impertinent. And you damned well better bring me something to justify this ridiculous extravagance. You can only coast so long on my goodwill, Mr. Ramon.” 

Mr. Ramon gently plucked Mark the Chicken from the air. He leaned down and whispered in the chicken’s ear. 

“No,” said Dr. Wells. 

“Go on, Mark,” Mr. Ramon urged. “Show him what you’re worth.” 

A faint breeze plucked at Mayor Snart’s open shirt. Moments later, his jacket flew up off the ground and slapped him on the chest. Papers fluttered on the mayor’s desk before taking flight, spiraling around the room until they created a literary tornado.

Mayor Snart’s sincere laugh of joy caught the scientists off guard. He clutched the chicken between his hands, wiggling his hips and palms in time to make it dance in mid-air. “Can you direct that breeze?” 

Mark the Chicken looked around for his cigar. Mayor Snart tucked the chicken under his arm, still laughing, while he bent down to fetch it. He lit the cigar, took a deep puff, and offered it to the chicken. “Show me your best.” 

The chicken inhaled deeply. Within seconds, the room seemed drier, less oppressively humid. A few moments more and it was noticeably cooler. Mayor Snart kept Mark the Chicken tucked under his arm as he closed the window. The chicken’s head bobbed in concentration as the temperature in the room dropped further. 

Snart slid back into his window seat, legs splayed wide, a look of contentment growing across his face as the temperatures rapidly plummeted from the heat of summer to a crisp autumn to the first chill days of winter. 

“Ten more attempts.” Mayor Snart ran a hand through his sweaty hair, half expecting to see icicles. “And I keep Mark the Chicken.”

“We’ll need to study him if you want us to replicate his results,” Mr. Ramon protested. 

“Pshaw.” Mayor Snart ran a gentle hand over Mark’s feathers. “You and I both know you have no idea what you’re doing. Bring me another chicken as impressive as this and I might even give you the twelve attempts you requested.” 

 

* * *

 

Dr. Wells stomped angrily through the hot, sticky streets, somehow managing to splash every puddle of horse piss onto Mr. Ramon’s trousers. “That was an unmitigated disaster.” 

Mr. Ramon huffed. “We got ten more attempts! At the rate he’s sending us criminals that will be over three months of additional funding!” 

They hauled the chicken carriers up the steps of Dr. Wells brownstone. Miss Jessica waved at them from upstairs. Seconds later she flung open the door, the house butler quick on her heels. 

“Oh Mark the Chicken! How I’ve missed you!” She reached into the chicken carrier, pushing other chickens away as she searched for him. 

“Papa? Do you have news?” 

“I’m pleased to report we have funding and sessions for ten more experiments,” said Cisco. 

“In exchange for leaving Mark the Chicken with Mayor Snart.” 

Miss Jessica blinked twice, face blank with shock, then spun on her heel and disappeared into the house. Mr. Ramon gently squeezed Dr. Wells shoulder. “She’ll forgive you eventually.” 

“Around September, I suspect,” said Mr. Hewitt, their butler. 

Hewitt helped them wrestle the chickens back into their rooftop coops. Mr. Ramon made sure to pet each one of them and whisper a few reassuring words before laying out a snack of tasty bugs fresh from the kitchen flycatcher mixed with a few handfuls of corn. 

“Your meeting must have gone well, sir,” said Hewitt. 

Dr. Wells was sweaty, exhausted, and more than a little vexed at the mayor’s appropriation of his favorite chicken. “Not particularly.” 

Hewitt coughed and handed Dr. Wells a folded note with Mayor Snart’s dramatic signature on the outside. 

“Your latest vic-” the butler stopped himself, “volunteer will be delivered an hour after dark. One Miss Rebecca Sharpe. The courier warned me she is, in his words, a hazard."

"So soon?" Mr. Ramon frowned. "Why?"

"We’re expecting a thunderstorm tonight." Dr. Wells passed Mr. Ramon the note. "Plenty of lightning.” 

The engineer crumpled it in his hand. “Cheap bastard.”


	4. Hazard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back to the 1890's! As we rejoin our heroes, an attempt to transmogrify Mayor Snart's latest Iron Heights prisoner has unforeseen consequences.

“At least utilizing natural lightning doesn’t count against our ten metered electrical attempts.” Mr. Ramon hung his dripping raincoat on a hook. The chicken coops were all safe and dry under rainproof tarps and the old lightning rod was in place. 

“How long is this going to take?” asked Miss Sharpe. 

“Until Zeus himself decides to grant us mercy,” muttered Dr. Wells. 

Rebecca Sharpe was over two hours late for her transmogrifycation. The couriers first tried to deliver her to a butcher shop, then required Dr. Wells signature to transfer custody. On the way back to the Wells brownstone she’d tripped over a rusty nail before falling face first into a puddle of horse piss. 

Mr. Ramon stroked the nervous woman’s long, blonde hair. “It’ll probably be another two or three hours. Perchance less. The storm looks angrier than Dr. Wells himself.” Her lips ticked up, smiling gratefully at his kindness.  

He tucked Linda the Chicken into the crook of Miss Sharpe’s arm in the hopes a little warmth would help soothe her nerves. Linda’s bright eyes illuminated the monotonous drone of rain against the windows while they waited. 

Every peal of thunder brought Miss Jessica up the stairs, cautiously peering into the laboratory for signs of flying flesh or feathers. After an hour she brought up a deck of cards. Linda the Chicken chose cards as Miss Sharpe’s unbound proxy, but after losing six straight hands in a row she unceremoniously hopped into Mr. Ramon’s lap and tucked her head under her wing. 

“That one sounds close,” said Miss Jessica. 

Dr. Wells threw open the window, staring into the wet, bleak night. His fingers wrapped around the windowsill as he leaned into the storm. “Feed her another dose of preparation elixir.” 

Miss Jessica took Linda the Chicken from Mr. Ramon’s lap. “Don’t worry, sweetie. I’ll cover your losses. The game was rigged.” The chicken gently pecked at a card hidden in Miss Jessica’s sleeve. Miss Jessica put a finger over the chicken’s beak and winked. 

Miss Sharpe frowned as she forced down the elixir. “It tastes like celery and onions.” 

“Trust me,” Mr. Ramon stroked her cheek. “That’s an improvement.” 

Lightning flashed again, closer this time. Mr. Ramon pulled on his goggles while Miss Jessica took Linda the Chicken behind the relative safety of the steel plate. 

Dr. Wells slid into his well worn leather apron and pulled down his goggles. “Prepare yourself, Mr. Ramon.” 

Mr. Ramon calmly squeezed Miss Sharpe’s hand, smiling reassurances at her, while tugging his own goggles into place. The hairs on his arms stood up, tiny bits of static electricity dancing between them. “What does the voltage meter read, Dr. Wells?” 

Dr. Wells slipped on Miss Sharpe’s filthy, discarded skirt. His hands flew upwards, grasping for purchase, and landed on the transmogrifyer’s handle. The massive steel and wood switch flipped down under his weight. Suddenly, the room filled with a painful brightness that threatened to blind them all as two distinct screams echoed off the walls. 

The room went dark. 

“Mr. Ramon!” Dr. Wells shouted. He could hear heavy breathing, far too heavy for a chicken. “Answer me this instant, Mr. Ramon.” 

“I’m fine.” Mr. Ramon’s shaking voice betrayed his lie. 

“Linda! We need illumination at once!” snapped Dr. Wells.

Twin beams of light punctured the darkness. Mr. Ramon threw an arm up to protect his eyes. He staggered backwards, landing on the transmogrifycation table. Miss Sharpe, now a lemon yellow chicken, squacked indignantly and leapt to the floor. She missed, instead colliding with the massive, teetering bookcase that separated the office portion of the room from the wet messes of the laboratory table itself. It fell forward, trapping Mr. Ramon on the still sparking contraption. 

“Francisco!” Dr. Wells launched himself at the bookcase, heaving with all his might. Mr. Ramon’s hand slid free. A strange spark animated his fingers as he struggled futilely beneath the weight. Linda the Chicken’s eye beams narrowed as she watched in concern. 

“Jessica! Fetch Mister Hewitt and the cook immediately!” Dr. Wells heaved against the infernal oak once more. 

Before Miss Jessica could throw open the door and call for help, the massive bookcase collapsed to the floor. A spray of steel dust erupted beneath it.

“No!” Dr. Wells fell to his knees. 

Miss Jessica ripped a stretch off her undershirt and wrapped it around her nose and mouth. Her father waved a futile protest as she did the same for him. “Look, Papa.” 

The transmogrification table was completely gone, as was most of the middle of the bookcase. In the center of the rising cloud of steel and oak dust lay a naked, unconscious Mr. Ramon, his body still buzzing with strange electricity. 


	5. The Morning After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the troubled experiment with Hazard, Mr. Ramon is shocked to wake up in a barn. 
> 
> * * *
> 
> Come for the hurt/comfort, stay for the gentle Victorian boning with mild undertones of future bondage experimentation.

Francisco Ramon awoke to the smell of fresh hay. 

Every part of his body itched. It felt like he’d been tossed naked into a barn full of angry chickens and left there until the animals were so hungry they abandoned vegetarianism in favor of human flesh. 

“Try some broth.” 

A cheap wooden spoon pressed against his mouth. Mr. Ramon tried to rub his sleep caked eyes but found his hands were unusually bound - the fingers individually spread wide, dipped in what felt like paraffin, then separated by wads of wool so no digits touched. The whole ensemble was bound in linen and tied at his wrists, which were kept two feet from one another via cheap wooden stocks. 

“Poseidon's salty balls,” he muttered. “Where am I?”

The spoon pushed at his mouth again. Whatever was in it smelled hearty and wholesome. He opened his cracked lips to take a drink. 

A soft hand gingerly stroked his hair. “As first words go, you could do worse.” 

“Pshaw,” said Mr. Ramon. “I have it on good authority that my first word was ‘steamboat’.”

He heard someone wring water from a rag. Gentle hands mopped his forehead before rubbing the crusty sleep from his eyes. 

“Welcome back to this side of the River Styx, Mr. Ramon.” Dr. Wells smiled down at him. To Mr. Ramon’s shock, the scientist looked like he’d wept recently. “You gave us quite the scare.” 

Miss Jessica stood behind her father, one hand resting on his shoulder. Behind her skirts hid a small flock of bedraggled chickens, all missing odd collections of feathers near their wings or along their necks. They watched Mr. Ramon suspiciously. 

“We have good news, and, well, interesting news for you.” Miss Jessica’s warm smile softened the worrisome words. 

Mr. Ramon stared up at his oddly yet efficiently bound hands, then back at her. 

“The good news is that while you do currently smell like an animal, you are not in fact a chicken,” said Miss Jessica. “Because while I support my father as a sinner and a sodomite, I draw the line at beastiality.”

“Thank you?” He shot Dr. Wells a confused look. Dr. Wells closed his eyes, shaking his head in frustration. 

“The interesting news is that you have, in the course of two days, disintegrated six of our best spoons, two full sets of clothing, and an entire bed,” said Miss Jessica. 

Mr. Ramon realized his modesty was preserved only by a thin layer of fresh hay piled atop his torso. He blushed hard and tried to wriggle deeper into the hay. Dr. Wells hand on his thigh stilled him. 

“Anything you touched seemed to vibrate into dust, as though the very molecules were so enraged they could not tolerate one another’s presence.” Dr. Wells sounded equally impressed and worried. 

“There’s an impressive hand print on the floor of your room,” said Miss Jessica. “We brought you around back to the stable lest you vibrate the house itself into dust.” 

That explained the smell, thought Mr. Ramon. And probably why his bed of hay seemed to be piled atop a suspiciously large mound of fine yellow dust.  Mr. Ramon’s eyes widened as a realization struck him. He looked sadly at the chickens, all ruffled and wounded in the areas they formerly nuzzled against him the most. “I owe you all my deepest apologies.” His voice was thick in his throat. 

Dr. Wells pressed another spoonful of warm broth to his lips. He drank, grateful for the excuse to stop speaking. 

Between sips, Mr. Ramon nervously chewed his bottom lip. He glanced up at his carefully bound hands. “Will I ever be able to use them again without destroying everything I touch?”

Dr. Wells thumb stroked a line across Mr. Ramon’s lightly stubbled chin. “You haven’t destroyed the bindings. That’s a start.” 

Mr. Ramon experimentally wriggled his fingers. “Perhaps we could design some sort of paraffin lined, wool filled protective gauntlets that still allow me some modicum of mobility?” He didn’t relish a lifetime of potentially disintegrating his trousers whenever he heeded nature’s call. 

“One step at a time, Mr. Ramon. First, let’s get you back into the house. Once you’re properly cleaned, clothed, and fed, I’m sure we can devise a better solution.” 

The chickens backed against the stable wall, watching anxiously as Dr. Wells unlocked the stocks and released Mr. Ramon’s hands. He wrapped a rough horse blanket around Mr. Ramon’s shoulders and quickly ushered him across the muddy alley and into the back kitchen. 

Miss Spivot was in the midst of roasting last night’s beef bones to make a fresh pot of broth. She held a bag of discarded onion skins, carrot tops, and herb stems over her massive stockpot, which was on the verge of coming to a boil. 

Dr. Wells deftly took the bag from her hands.“Send out for cold sandwiches, Miss Spivot. We’ll use this to draw a bath tonight.” 

Miss Spivot’s eyes widened at the sight of Mr. Ramon, who blushed under her gaze. She grabbed both of the house’s kettles and added them to the stove for the extra hot water she knew her employer would shortly demand. 

While Mr. Hewitt hauled the water and prepared the bath, Dr. Wells steered Mr. Ramon across the hall to his dressing room. He pulled out his shaving kit and rolled up his sleeves. “You have the start of a fine mustache, should you decide to keep it.” 

Mr. Ramon stared down at the carefully bound hands in his lap. Dr. Wells lifted his chin. “Yes. I think you should. It will look quite dashing.” 

Dr. Wells disappeared briefly. Mr. Ramon could hear a short, sharp exchange between him and Mr. Hewitt before Dr. Wells returned, triumphant, holding steaming hot towel he’d briefly soaked in the bath water. “Mr. Hewitt was quite indignant at a man of my stature performing this service.” 

Mr. Ramon melted into in the chair as Dr. Wells skillfully wrapped the steaming towel around his face. He leaned in close and whispered, “but I assure you, I know my way around the contours of a man’s anatomy.” 

Mr. Ramon kept his bound hands demurely in his lap as Dr. Wells lathered his face. The straight razor slid across his cheeks with the precision of a clockmaker. When the last offending whiskers were removed and shaving soap wiped away, he rested a hand on Mr. Ramon’s shoulder, thumb idly stroking his collar bone, and smiled toothily at his handiwork. “As I expected. Dashing.” 

He leaned in and brushed a light kiss over his lips. The combination of brazenness and personal risk lit an unexpected spark of excitement in Mr. Ramon. 

“I forget myself,” Dr. Wells whispered. He opened a small pot and gently rubbed rose scented beeswax over Mr. Ramon’s cracked lips. “Better?” 

Mr. Ramon silently nodded, half afraid of scaring off this apparition that had chosen to take the form of his employer. 

“I missed you,” Dr. Wells confessed. “Jessica and I worried you would never return to us from the land of the  [ lotus eaters ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lotus-eaters) .” 

“My sleep was anything but calm or apathetic.” Mr. Ramon held up his carefully bound hands as evidence. “Just ask our brood of chickens.” 

A bell rang. From outside the closed dressing room door, Mr. Hewitt loudly announced that the bath was ready. Mr. Ramon was so overwhelmed with a sudden sense of Deja Vu that he didn’t protest as Dr. Wells slid strong hands under his armpits and helped him rise to his feet. 

The horse blanket fell between them. Dr. Wells face creased from the effort of not glancing downwards. Instead, he slid an arm around Mr. Ramon’s shoulders, bracing the smaller man against him as they headed across the hallway.

Mr. Ramon frowned at the muddy prints he tracked on the carpet.  “Miss Spivot will be furious with us tomorrow.” He stumbled, certain he’d said those very words before. 

Dr. Wells ushered him into the solid wooden chair set up next to the bath. Ever observant, Mr. Hewitt had set out a foot basin and hand towels so they could get the worst of the grime off Mr. Ramon before literally muddying the waters of his bath. 

“Then I’d best spare her an excess of laundry,” said Dr. Wells. 

Mr. Ramon settled his feet into the warm, rose scented water and watched as Dr. Wells slowly unbuttoned his shirt and folded it over the arm of a nearby chair. His breath caught as Dr. Wells fingers moved on to the buttons of his trousers. Mr. Ramon wasn’t sure whether this slow precision was mean to entice him or offer him ample opportunity to protest. 

“This seems rather unfair, Dr. Wells.” Mr. Ramon held up his bound hands. “As I am literally helpless to respond to your provocations.” 

Naked, Dr. Wells knelt before Mr. Ramon. He grabbed a peel of soap and gently scrubbed the mud off Mr. Ramon’s feet. As his hands worked below the water, he nuzzled a cheek against Mr. Ramon’s knees, urging them apart. Mr. Ramon chewed his beeswax coated lip and let his knees fall to either side, revealing his excitement. 

Dr. Wells smiled up at him. “That, my good sir, is exactly the response I was hoping for.” He stood suddenly, reaching not between Mr. Ramon’s legs but rather for his elbows. “Into the tub with you. You stink like a barn.”

“And whose fault is that?” Mr. Ramon carefully stepped into the tub, all the while awkwardly holding his arms above him.

“Mayor Snart,” Dr. Wells replied. “None of this would’ve happened if he hadn’t sent us that infernal prisoner.” 

Dr. Wells grabbed both of Mr. Ramon’s wrists in one hand and held them over his head. “Sit.” 

Mr. Ramon swallowed hard as he silently obeyed. Dr. Wells knelt beside the tub and efficiently scrubbed his armpits until he smelled like lavender and sage. He dried the tub’s rim with a clean towel and gently rested Mr. Ramon’s arms against the porcelain. 

Dr. Wells ran a hand over Mr. Ramon’s hair. After days fitfully sleeping on hay it was more tangles than curls. He pulled out a stalk and tossed it onto the carpet. 

“I’ve wanted to wash your hair since the first time I touched it,” said Dr. Wells. 

“That sounds like an insult,” Mr. Ramon protested. 

“Get under the water.” Dr. Wells held Mr. Ramon’s wrists firmly against the dry porcelain rim as he slid down, shaking his head to soak his locks. When he slid back up, Dr. Wells lathered a bar of shampoo between his hands and slowly worked it into Mr. Ramon’s thick, black hair. Mr. Ramon leaned back against the tub, sighing as Dr. Wells nails gently scraped circles into his scalp. 

“You should add this to your employment postings.” Mr. Ramon sighed happily. “Room, board, occasional electricity, an exciting brood of chickens, and thorough scalp massages after every major injury.” 

Dr. Wells gently pushed Mr. Ramon’s head back under the water. His hands continued to work through the tangles as he washed the shampoo free. When Mr. Ramon sat up again, Dr. Wells poured a generous dollop of hair oil into his palm and started gently working it into his wet locks. 

“You have no idea how vexing this is.” Mr. Ramon leaned his head back and stared up into Dr. Wells eyes. “Being unable to touch you. 

“Really?” Dr. Wells smile widened. “I’m rather enjoying having you helpless to my ministrations.”  

One hand grabbed a fistfull of hair close to Mr. Ramon’s scalp and pulled. A faint whimper escaped his lips. Mr. Ramon looked up at him, wide eyes eagerly daring him to do it again. 

Dr. Wells pulled another moan from Mr. Ramon’s mouth before kissing a line across his shoulder, up his neck, to nip at his ear. His well oiled hands slid down Mr. Ramon’s chest, over the gentle swell of his belly, until one wrapped tightly around his cock. He was trapped between Dr. Wells long, lanky arms and the hard porcelain tub, helpless to do anything more than buck into Dr. Wells oiled hand. 

Dr. Wells kissed a slow line across Mr. Ramon’s jaw, each touch of his lips timed to a stroke. When their lips touched, Dr. Wells sighed into Mr. Ramon’s mouth. “I was afraid I’d never touch you again,” he whispered. “Never taste you.” His grip tightened around Cisco’s cock. “Never feel you.”

It felt less like a kiss and more like Dr. Wells wanted to consume him. He hungrily licked into his mouth, teeth nipping at Mr. Ramon’s raw lips as his hand worked steadily beneath the water. He wanted it to last, to relish the feel of Dr. Wells hand and his tongue taking him apart in the warm water, but his hunger was infectious. Much as Mr. Ramon tried to resist, all too soon he felt warmth coiling irresistibly in his belly as his head lolled backwards, mouth agape. He quietly gasped, “Harry,” as he exploded into the man’s hand. 

Dr. Wells held him tight against the tub, nose nuzzlng his cheek as Mr. Ramon panted from his release. When he could catch his breath, he lazily kissed Dr. Wells again, soft and slow, then let his head roll forward. He stared down at the ropes of slick settling on his thighs. “This is a most inefficient bath.” 

“It was perfect,” said Dr. Wells.

Mr. Ramon scoffed. “I doubt Mr. Hewitt would agree.” 

Dr. Wells kissed Mr. Ramon’s temple. “Then it’s a good thing he wasn’t invited.” 

He helped him out of the tub then took his time drying him, occasionally pausing to kiss a line along his hip bone. He rested his cheek against Mr. Ramon’s thigh. “I hope you aren’t too angry with me.”

Mr. Ramon blinked in surprise. “For that?”

“No.” Dr. Wells laughed into Mr. Ramon’s soft honey soft skin. Possessive hands wrapped tight around his hips, pulling him closer. “You’re not going back to the barn tonight, but you are sleeping in stocks.”

Mr. Ramon raised an eyebrow. “For your amusement or my protection?” His cock twitched as Dr. Wells licked a line up his shaft, chuckling softly. 

“I won’t object if we decide to keep them for later, but tonight, let us ensure you don’t disintegrate another bed.”

Mr. Ramon swayed as another wave of Deja Vu washed over him. He’d seen this moment, felt it, down to the whisper of hair oil teasing his neck and the possessive feel of Dr. Wells hands squeezing his thighs as he lazily dragged his lips over Mr. Ramon’s hip bone. While he thrashed against the scratchy hay, every detail had been precisely performed in the theater of his mind. 

And he knew what was coming next. 

  
  



End file.
